


Shared, Divided, Kept

by Lady_T_220



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: BDSM, Gangbang, Kinks, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Sub!Martin, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_T_220/pseuds/Lady_T_220
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not so much a learning curve as an educational embankment, but as long as Martin gets what he needs Douglas is more than happy to give it a try</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shared, Divided, Kept

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic prompt meme - [Original prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=771544#t771544)

"Do you have any fantasies, Douglas?"

The question comes a little out of the blue and Douglas would freely admit that he has to think about it for a moment before answering. Martin is draped across Douglas's bare chest, soft and sated and quite deliciously pliant, his limbs a wilted tangle beneath the warm sheets. He's usually more than halfway comatose after an evening like the one they've just had, handcuffs and sodomy notwithstanding, so it comes as a bit of a surprise that he should want to initiate a conversation like this so soon after finishing.

Then again, Douglas suspects he's probably been working up to asking that question for a while. He also guesses there's more than likely an ulterior motive behind it. It's a bit too specific a query for Martin to voice just out of plain curiosity. He curls his fingers around Martin's limp hand in reply and brings the slender, pale wrist up to his mouth, apologetically kissing the faint red chafing that has bloomed there. He's always careful but Martin's skin is frighteningly easy to mark.

Douglas's mind has a tendency to run on at least two tracks when dealing with Martin like this, so even as he answers "Oh, one or two. Doesn't everyone?" he considers that despite the cuffs being lined they really might benefit from something softer. Martin bruises so prettily, but it isn't always what he wants to achieve. Sometimes it's nice to see him blissed out on the blurred, fuzzy edges of pampered indulgence instead, and accidental grazes don't suit that at all.

"I suppose," Martin concedes. Douglas lets Martin reclaim his captured hand, feeling it drape sinuously across his stomach, fingers fluttering against the warm, slightly sweat-pricked skin. It's a habit Douglas is all too familiar with, a nervous tick that usually means there's more to come just as long as he's willing to wait it out.

"I take it from your anxious fidgeting there's something particular you had in mind to discuss?" Douglas says. He deliberately gentles his tone as he feels Martin cringe. "Go ahead; whatever's on your mind."

Douglas drags his fingers slowly through Martin's hair, maintaining contact as he waits for Martin to speak. When he doesn't, Douglas purses his lips thoughtfully, watching Martin's delicate hand pick nervously at the edge of the blanket.

"It's alright, Martin," he offers, changing tack. "It's not going to change how I feel about you."

Martin shakes his head, sighing softly. "No," he murmurs. "It was just a passing thought. Forget I said anything, you wouldn't like it anyway."

Douglas frowns. "You don't know that for certain," he says. "That's the thing about fantasies. You never know who's got the same one until you go looking."

He can tell Martin isn't convinced; the worried crease between his brows is just visible when Douglas tilts his head.

"Besides," Douglas adds. "Even if it's not something that appeals to me, that's not a problem. Some fantasies we can play out and some, for the sake of safety and sanity, work just as well when they remain nothing more than inspiring little ideas. I'm not going to take it personally." He pauses. "Well, not unless you want to throw me off a bridge or something, I might take that a bit personally, but I'm assuming that's not the kind of fantasy you're talking about."

He feels Martin shrug a little, squirming closer, and Douglas grins. "Come on. It can't hurt. I think I dealt admirably with the one about the CAA inspection and the strip search. That was actually rather fun, even if it did take forever to get the stains off the carpet."

He feels Martin giggle in surprise, smiling slightly in recollection of that particular incident. Those nervously wandering fingers pause for a moment as Martin nuzzles shyly against Douglas's chest.

"Mm, we should do that one again some time," Martin murmurs.

"Absolutely," Douglas agrees. "But next time I'm putting down a towel."

Martin laughs, breathing out a gust of warm air against Douglas's skin. He relaxes almost immediately when Douglas presses the heel of his palm into the back of Martin's neck, expertly rubbing the tightened muscles.

"Come on then," Douglas murmurs. "Tell me. What naughty things have been lurking in your head to get you so wound up?"

Martin's eyelashes flutter as they close, back arching to lean further into the slow kneading at the top of his shoulders.

"You know I love... the things we do," Martin mutters. "And- ...and _being yours_?" Douglas isn't overly fond of euphemisms but Martin's always had difficulty with the words. He's desperately eager to submit, but actually saying it brings him out in a red-faced stutter of awkward misery so Douglas tends to let it slide.

"I love you," Martin adds. "And I love being with you. And even when you're cross with me I know that it's you and it's safe and... well, it's intimate." He pauses momentarily, wetting suddenly paper-dry lips. "It's just, sometimes... I think about what would happen if you weren't so nice."

Martin hesitates, lying still and anxious on Douglas's chest. "I know it's a horrible cliché, and it's all about the balance of power and whatever and not everyone thinks it's OK, but I can't help thinking about how it would feel sometimes to, I don't know, push it to a different conclusion. What it's like to just... be _used_."

He shivers on the last word, his voice growing breathy and a little bit frantic. "Because, I mean... in theory, you probably could, couldn't you? There'd be nothing to stop you. I know you wouldn't but, if you wanted to, you actually could just leave me tied up and helpless whenever you felt like it. You _could_ do anything you wanted. Keep me or ignore me or pass me around at a party like the entertainment..."

Martin takes a breath, trembling minutely under Douglas's steady palm. "That's, uh... that's what I think about, mostly. Being shared around. Strangers- men -taking turns at using me, one after the other, and you wouldn't stop them because you'd have set it up on purpose just to watch them do it, like- like some kind of... of..."

"Sex toy?" Douglas offers.

Martin nods jerkily and bites his lip, pausing as if waiting for Douglas's steady caress to stop. When it doesn't he haltingly continues. "They'd... well, they'd treat me like an object. Talk about me like I can't hear them; about all the things they're going to do, and how they're going to make me perform. I'd be punished so hard if I got it wrong, and worked until I couldn't come any more and the only thing I'd be allowed to think about was pleasing them."

His grasp tightens against Douglas's belly, fingertips whitening as if anticipating rejection.

"Hm," Douglas replies eventually. His tone is admittedly surprised, though he doesn't stop his caress and Martin chances a quick look up at his face.

Douglas's brows are drawn close in thought and Martin lowers his eyes again, cheeks scarlet with mortification. His previously spent cock twitches humiliatingly, partially hard against Douglas's thigh from the thought alone and they both know Douglas can feel it.

"It's just a fantasy," Martin says again, weakly. "I used to think about it sometimes, even before I met you. It wouldn't actually be forcing me or anything, because I do want it. I just..." He trails off. "I'm sorry, I know it's weird."

Martin sighs raggedly, frustrated with his own inability to express why the idea turns him on so much. It's not something he's convinced even has a rational explanation. There's no logical reason he should want to retreat back into being nothing but a pliant sexual object, all shivering nerves and mindless obeisance, but it persists none the less.

"Well, it's unexpected," Douglas admits finally.

If Douglas is honest it's also a great deal more graphic than anything he'd ever anticipated hearing from Martin's mouth. Given that not five minutes before he'd been skirting entirely around the whole concept of submission, Douglas had been expecting some adorable bumbling and perhaps a little euphemistic interpretation, not a detailed description of a barely consenting sex-slave-themed gang-bang.

Martin seems to curl in on himself the longer Douglas goes without speaking. He's virtually radiating shame already, and Douglas has to bend his neck all the way down to finish his reply, lips brushing intimately against Martin's ear. "But if I'm completely honest, I've had much the same thought."

Martin blinks at that, head jerking up in disbelief. "What?" he asks.

"Indeed," Douglas replies. He meets Martin's gaze at last, expression promising and slightly amused, mouth tilted up at the corner wickedly.

"You mean," Martin stammers. "You'd like to see me... uh..."

"Shared around?" Douglas supplies. "Shown off? Deliciously pliant as my most esteemed guests sample your delectable charms? You know me, Martin. Any excuse to boast about my good fortune, and you are by far and away my favourite toy."

Martin blushes furiously and Douglas pulls him up to kiss him, sliding his tongue possessively into Martin's mouth. Martin whimpers faintly, capitulating to the demanding, hungry force of Douglas's lips, his body growing lax and docile as Douglas takes control.

By the time Douglas finally releases him Martin is breathing heavily and he drops back into his place on Douglas's chest with a contented sigh, letting Douglas's hands roam idly across his exposed, vulnerable back.

"Couldn't be real strangers though," Douglas muses a moment later. "You'd have to be safe, even if it was just a roleplay. There'd have to be rules. And of course no one gets to punish you except for me. I have to keep a few things for myself."

Martin moans faintly, arching against Douglas's touch.

"You mean you're actually willing to do it?" he breathes dazedly.

"I can't promise that," Douglas says. "But I'll think about it."

\---

Weeks pass, and the subject isn't brought up again. Things continue much as normal for Martin; the usual round of flights and stand-by intermingled with days spent in the van and nights spent with Douglas.

It's actually surprising how little has really changed since they started this relationship, with perhaps the exception of better food, regular sex and the deliciously sweet ache in his backside every time Martin tries to sit down. His bottom is almost constantly hot and sensitive, either from the surprisingly enthusiastic sex they've been indulging in, or from the shiver-inducing slap of Douglas's heavy right hand. The latter is nominally chastisement for Martin's perpetual tendency to fidget, but it's a bit of a spurious deterrent when the punishment makes him come harder than a freight train and the resultant tenderness in his rear causes him to fidget all the more the morning after.

Martin is happy, though; ridiculously, sickeningly so in fact. This thing with Douglas is good. It's really good. Far better than he could have hoped for. Perhaps some people would think it dangerous to put words like 'safe' and 'loved' and 'wanted' anywhere in conjunction with a man like Douglas Richardson, but in all honesty that wouldn't actually be true.

It may be hidden behind a layer of protective sarcasm but Douglas _cares_ about things, far more than he lets on, and the depth of those feelings is something Martin is only just beginning to really understand. When he loves something, Douglas does so deeply and generously. It's a slow-burning pool of warmth, easy to find when you know where to look, but disguised behind layers of exasperation and cynicism. He uses teasing as a mark of affection, he's only ever truly polite to people he can't stand, and yet somehow he has never made Martin feel ashamed of the things he needs when they're at home.

Their relationship stays strictly out of the cockpit, out of the jokes and the word games and the Birling Day whiskey hunts. He treats Martin's submission as a gift; something precious and on loan that can be taken away if he abuses it, and so home and work remain, by mutual agreement, completely separate.

It comes as something of a surprise then, that it's a work day when Douglas finally crowds up against Martin's shower-damp body and purrs the question that invariably marks the start of whatever they do.

"Do you remember your safeword?"

It's mid-afternoon, though it feels like morning because they've only just got up. There's a last-minute evening standby pencilled in on the calendar in the kitchen and Martin stills, heart fluttering in his chest as he tightens his grip on the towel still wrapped around his waist. His uniform is laid out on the bed in front of him, pressed and ready to be worn, and for a moment he is uncertain, the mix of 'Work' and 'Master' making his brain blank. He feels the light touch of Douglas's hand against his arm, a reassuring squeeze before Martin exhales shakily. He blinks his eyes shut for a second and then nods, letting Douglas pull the towel from his unresisting fingers. He tosses it across a chair on the far side of the room before pushing insistently on Martin's shoulders, dropping him to his knees.

"You know the position. Face on the floor and spread you legs," Douglas instructs calmly and Martin feels himself obeying automatically, his heartbeat racing as his cock twitches in conditioned anticipation.

"I've arranged something special," Douglas says. "We're due at the field shortly, of course, but I know you appreciate the importance of planning ahead and you're going to be glad of this later."

Martin sees Douglas's shiny black shoes vanish from his peripheral vision, the heavy drag of their toybox the only sound in the room above his own rapid breathing.

"Bought you something new," Douglas adds a moment later. "It's a little bigger than you normally wear, but you'll have plenty of time to get used to it."

Martin's breath stutters in his lungs as he hears the cap pop off the bottle of lube. He knows, without even being told, exactly what Douglas has bought. He's been made to wear plugs before, Douglas rather likes the sight of them, but only ever around the house and never outside it. Certainly never at work.

Douglas's favourite toy to use on him is thick and blue. It's wide enough to stop anything leaking back out after he's been fucked, and just uncomfortable enough to be sure Martin is constantly aware that he's wearing it. The memory is intoxicating and Martin's body tightens in anticipation, reacting to the knowledge that whatever Douglas has bought this time will be even harder to take.

Not just bigger, but inescapable. Anything beyond what he's used to he knows will be unbearable inside him. He can't help but imagine the coming torment of being stuffed to bursting even while he's supposed to be working; while he's out and in public... while he's-

Martin whimpers, unable to control the desperate little noise that escapes his throat as a cool, slick finger pushes lube insistently against his obediently exposed entrance. He forces his sphincter to relax as Douglas's other hand runs reassuringly down Martin's trembling flank, the intrusion in his arse sliding deeper, down to the second knuckle.

Douglas's fingers inside him are familiar and comforting, tracing a pattern they've wandered a hundred times before, opening Martin up with confident ease. He's sighing with pleasure by the time Douglas slides in a second digit, followed by a third, easing him wide in the same way he does before filling Martin with cock. The first touch of the plug is different though, warm fingers replaced with something firm and rubbery and broad-tipped. Martin can't help but hitch as he feels just the end of it breach him, the thick coating of lube cold and viscous as an escaping drip of it slips down across his perineum.

The plug feels huge and unwieldy as it pushes against him, the mass heavy and slick, his flesh stretching slowly but surely under Douglas's guidance. Martin's fingers grasp desperately at the weave of the carpet under his cheek as it penetrates him. The plug is long and steeply tapered, forcing him open deep inside in a manner that is not entirely pleasant. His ring burns, pulled unbearably taut as it crests towards the widest point. Douglas pauses there, tracing his fingers over delicate skin that's been stretched further than it's usually forced to go, his sweet little pucker tightly hugging the invasive length.

There are subtle ridges along the shaft of the plug, rings that nudge against Martin's prostate when it moves and his erection jerks feebly underneath him. He's half hard, arousal clouded by discomfort and Douglas lets out a satisfied little hum as the plug finally slides home. The flared base nestles flush between Martin's buttocks, his hole indecently dilated beneath it, and Douglas leans forward to kiss the dip at the base of Martin's spine in satisfaction.

Martin is prickled with sweat and trembling; faint, sporadic shivers fluttering through his muscles. Steady arms around his shoulders lift him, raising Martin's head from the floor as Douglas helps him kneel, embracing him from behind. Held close to the warmth of a solid chest, Martin's head lolls back against Douglas's shoulder, blinking dazedly at the ceiling. Broad, possessive hands slide down Martin's chest and stomach, caressing the inside of his parted thighs before Douglas wraps a hand firmly around Martin's penis.

Douglas strokes the tender shaft with lube-slick fingers, clutching Martin tight against him as he buries his nose in the still-damp copper curls.

"You have to come before you can get dressed," Douglas growls. "Can't have you on a hair-trigger all day if I want you to last later."

Martin's lips part on a high, breathy moan as Douglas's free hand spreads across Martin's chest, tweaking at his nipple. He teases and thumbs at the soft-pink nub, his other arm working steadily as he wanks Martin quickly and efficiently towards an unsatisfyingly perfunctory climax.

Martin comes barely a moment later, too quick to be really enjoyable, and a weak little pulse of semen spurts across the side of the bed as his body spasms helplessly in Douglas's grip. The hot, possessive hand around his cock eases off as Douglas cups Martin's spent genitals, holding his sensitised flesh gently in the warm breadth of his palm.

"Gorgeous," Douglas murmurs. His lips buss against Martin's sweat-dampened temple, waiting a moment for Martin to regain his breath before finally letting go and helping him to stand. Martin's knees are weak and rubbery, his expression dazed, and every movement shifts the plug inside him enough to make his abdomen ache unbearably.

Douglas tilts Martin's head back to kiss him softly, reverently, a warm press of lips and tender affection before stepping back to grab the freshly ironed shirt off the bed. Douglas silently guides Martin's arms into the sleeves and fastens the buttons before bending down to slide Martin's bare feet into a pair of black socks. His trousers go on next, Douglas sliding them up Martin's legs before zipping him in securely, pausing only to make sure his shoes are on and firmly laced before Douglas finally gets to his feet.

Broad, strong hands smooth the creases from Martin's shirt and then his tie is knotted and tightened around his neck, the light tug at his throat forcing Martin's eyes up to meet Douglas's assessing stare. He feels pinned and strangely possessed, the lack of underwear leaving him sensitive to every shift of fabric, and even though he's dressed Martin feels peculiarly naked. It's a sensation heightened by the thick intrusion still hidden deeply inside his body.

In some distant part of his mind Martin wonders if people can tell what's been done to him just by looking. He almost hopes they can, idle glances laying him bare, leaving him indelibly exposed as property of Douglas Richardson. The thought makes him swallow dryly. Whispers of his nervously-confessed fantasy echo back at him- of being treated like a possession and callously used at his Master's discretion -and Martin blushes hard at the direction his thoughts have taken him.

Douglas merely raises one knowing eyebrow, holding open Martin's blazer expectantly. When he's fully dressed, Douglas perches Martin's hat securely on his head and bodily turns him towards the door.

"Go down to the car," he says. There's a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Time for work."

\---

The drive in is exquisitely uncomfortable. Every jostle and pothole echoes through Martin's tautly-stretched hole and shivers up his spine in ripples of aching fullness. Martin spares a thought to be grateful that Douglas's Lexus has better suspension than the van, but even though the trip feels like an eternity they still reach the airfield long before he's quite managed to gain any sense of composure.

Martin climbs out gingerly, biting his lip as every movement makes his stomach clench. The rub of uniform trousers against his genitals has left him uncomfortably sensitive and his walk is hesitant, perhaps even a little awkward, as he starts toward the Portacabin.

"Not that way," says Douglas firmly from behind him. "You've got a job to do in Hangar Two."

"Wh- what?" Martin stammers. "But what about the flight? I thought-"

"Oh, did you get the wrong impression?" Douglas asks. "Bit of a fib on the calendar there. I know you can't be expected to remember every detail, but I'm a little surprised you don't remember that the airfield's closed today. Grounded for radar repairs, if you recall. I said you were working, I never mentioned anything about flying."

"Working?" Martin breathes nervously.

"I have some people to entertain," Douglas states blandly. "Just a select group I like to keep in good favour. They know when to turn a blind eye and I'm rewarding their continued loyalty with a vigorous shot at fucking _you_."

Martin feels his heart lurch sharply in his chest, adrenaline flooding his system as he turns and stares at Douglas in shock.

Douglas's eyebrows dip fractionally, a questioning look flickering across his face, a hint of concern edging his features. It's as if he's looking for something- reassurance perhaps, or maybe just acquiescence -and Martin can't stop the smile that dances suddenly and knowingly across his lips. His pulse is fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird, something hot and decadent surging beneath his skin as he finally realises what Douglas is doing.

He could safeword out right this second; they could forget the whole thing and just go home, maybe have pizza and watch TV and curl up on the sofa and never mention it ever again. But even as he thinks it, he knows he never will. Because this... well, this is impossible. It's filthy and wonderful and degrading and perfect, and Douglas has arranged it all just for him. It swells inside him, huge and brilliant and desperate, and he almost wants to drop to his knees and take Douglas in his mouth just in gratitude for the opportunity.

The look on Martin's face and the shift in his posture seems to be enough to bolster Douglas's resolve and his chin raises commandingly, expression hardening into something imperious as he nods his head towards the smallest of the light aircraft hangars.

"Well, don't dawdle, boy," Douglas says. "You know how to present yourself, I shall be very annoyed if my guests are made to wait."

\---

The inside of the hangar is cool and dark, the air heavy with the smell of engines and fresh oil. Right at the back, hidden behind a small red Cessna, someone has laid out a padded expanse of carpet, wide enough to cover the rough surface of pitted concrete between the wing of the plane and the wall. There's a low coffee table there too, and a couple of the upholstered chairs that are usually kept in the passenger lounge. The whole set up is shielded from view by the deserted aircraft around it and Martin hesitates at the edge of the rug, toes wiggling nervously in his shoes as he waits for instructions.

He feels the solid, steadying presence of Douglas behind him, heat at his back as arms reach around to start unbuttoning his jacket. The hat is pulled from his head before his blazer is stripped away and the knot on his tie loosened. Martin's arms hang limp and passive at his sides while Douglas methodically strips him, feet slipping out of his shoes when prompted. Martin drops to his knees on the carpet the moment he's naked, heart racing in anticipation even as his mind seems to grow impossibly blank and calm.

Douglas's fingers momentarily sink into Martin's hair, nudging at the crown of his head and Martin's gaze drops automatically, eyes lowered as he folds his hands meekly at the base of his spine.

"Good," Douglas murmurs. His palms on Martin's bare shoulders are heavy and controlling, and Martin feels his body relax under the posessive touch. His skin tingles as Douglas reaches down to grip each of his forearms, easing Martin's clenched fingers apart and drawing his slender arms up to rest wrist to elbow across the centre of his back. Douglas holds them there for a moment with a meaningful little squeeze.

"Don't move," Douglas warns.

Martin doesn't, tensing obediently to maintain the position as Douglas steps away. He hears the faint susurrus of rope uncoiling and then the familiar brush of it against his skin, bands of pressure tightening around his flesh a moment later. Each wrist is bound securely, coils of rope winding around the opposite bicep so his forearms lie together horizontally over his spine. It pulls at his shoulders a little, arching his back and pushing his chest out, just the right side of uncomfortable and it makes his breath hitch in awareness of his own helplessness.

It's cold in the hangar; not unbearably so but just chill enough to make Martin shiver at the sense of exposure it brings. His skin feels tingling and tight, sensitised more than it would be from anticipation alone. He is acutely aware of every minute whisper of breeze against his flesh, the nap of the carpet rough and prickly beneath his knees.

Martin's stomach is squirming, knotted with anxiety and he squeezes his eyes shut, lips parting on a faint breath as he hears the hangar door thump and clang, the deep pulse of metal on metal reverberating around the empty space. Footsteps follow. Lots of them. He has no idea how many but the thump of heavy work boots on concrete is unmistakable. Martin can't stop shivering, lungs beginning to heave as Douglas's palm lands heavy and warm against the back of his neck, tugging his cheek to rest against Douglas's thigh.

"Steady," Douglas says.

Martin swallows, the faint edge of a whimper on his lips as the men draw closer. They're definitely men, voices a low expectant murmur that echoes off the rafters and Douglas fists his hand roughly in Martin's ginger curls, holding his head bent low.

"Gentlemen!" Douglas greets, jovially. "Your timing, as always, is impeccable."

"This it, then?" someone says. "Not exactly the Ritz, is it?"

"The surroundings are perhaps not ideal," Douglas concedes, "But the boy, on the other hand, knows better than to disappoint."

"Oh aye?" asks another voice. "And what's he do that's so special?"

"Takes whatever he's given," Douglas says darkly. "Make no mistake, it's not every day my largess will drop such a delightfully easy little slut into your metaphorical laps." He shrugs, jerking Martin's head from side to side in the process. "Still, it's been a profitable few months for me and I'm feeling magnanimous enough to share the use of my boy here. Consider it an incentive to maintain your good work."

He gives Martin a callous shove, holding him out at arm's length. "He really is quite a delight," Douglas adds idly. "I recommend you start with the mouth."

The hand in his hair withdraws with a parting yank, leaving Martin unbalanced and isolated in the centre of the carpet. Pulse thundering, his eyes remain resolutely fixed on the floor even as the circle closes around him. A broad, work-roughened palm cups Martin's jaw, nudging his head up just enough to slide a dry, thick thumb between his lips. Martin sucks gratefully, glad to have something to focus on, eyes glazed and distant as he slips into a role he knows he can do well. His tongue swirls around the tip of the digit, fellating it adoringly before it pulls out, smearing moisture across the curve of his lower lip.

"Nice," comes the comment. "Would look better round my cock though."

"Feel free," Douglas says. His voice is disinterested, relaxed, the scrape of furniture signaling that he's made himself comfortable on one of the cushioned chairs. "You know the rules of course. You can use him as hard as you like, that's what he's for and he certainly won't refuse, but if he misbehaves that's entirely my domain."

"Fair enough," the man replies.

Somewhere in the back of Martin's head he knows the voice is familiar. He knows he's heard it before, from someone who works at the airfield, but the thought doesn't seem to want to take root. It evaporates like mist as his face is pressed crudely against the crotch of a well-worn pair of indigo jeans.

He can feel the ridge of a hard cock against his cheek, solid heat that presses up behind the fabric, and Martin mouths at it obediently, the denim growing warm and damp beneath his lips and softly dragging tongue. The man rubs himself against Martin's face lazily, cupping the back of his head to hold him close as his free hand reaches down to flip open the button and peel apart the tautly-stretched zip.

Martin nuzzles longingly at the crease of hip and thigh until the man has pulled his cock free, the thick flesh jutting above the pulled-down waistband of his underpants. It sticks lewdly out of the open gap in his clothing, starkly naked against the background of worn cotton. The hand at Martin's nape tightens, pushing down as Martin wraps his mouth eagerly around the jutting shaft. He sucks greedily, lashes fluttering closed in satisfaction as he sinks deeper, swallowing as the head grazes the back of his tongue. The corners of his mouth quickly grow damp, spit clinging to his skin as firm hands hold his head tightly in place. The man thrusts slowly and luxuriously between his pouted lips, hissing in appreciation as Martin's tongue laves the sensitive flesh reverently on each press forward.

"That's it," the man murmurs. "Get me nice and wet."

Martin moans around the thickness filling his mouth, revelling in the feel of losing himself in this act of service. He sucks devotedly, worshiping on his knees like a penitent, relishing the careless use of his body. He wants to taste it, feel the heat of come spilling across his tongue and he hollows his cheeks to suck harder, accepting every inch thrust down his throat before he's finally yanked backwards and shoved down to sit on his heels.

Saliva glistens on the taut, reddened shaft, the man's fist stroking it lewdly in front of Martin's face. The exposed head seems to fill his vision, a pearlescent drip of pre-come escaping the slit before the man wipes it dismissively across Martin's cheek. Martin's own shaft is warm and heavy between his parted legs, already half-hard despite his Master wringing that first orgasm out of him before they left the house. He wonders how long he'll have to wait before they finally grace him with hot flesh in his arse too, instead of the achingly heavy plug.

Martin barely has time to dwell on it though, before he is dismissively handed off. The scent of bare flesh and arousal is heavy in his nostrils as another cock pushes against his lips, demanding entry. He sucks that one too, moaning in desire at the baseness of it.

The thought only dawns on him after it's already halfway in his mouth and heavy against his tongue, that he is likely just preparing them, slicking them, for his own penetration. The notion sends a jolt of heat down to his stomach and Martin shivers in reaction, groaning wantonly as he spreads his legs wider.

"Eager little slut," the man above him comments, and Martin huffs out a desperate, hungry little breath, pulling back enough to lavish slow, worshipful licks across the end of the presented cock.

A tight grip at his jaw draws his head up sharply and Martin's eyes flick open, barely getting a glance at the figure using him before he's been replaced yet again. This time his head is cradled in a strong, wiry grasp, one hand forcibly holding his neck craned back as the man presses his penis against Martin's nose and lips. He lingers there for a while, idly rubbing himself off against Martin's upturned face.

Work-roughened fingers hold his erection steady as the man ruts the underside of it lewdly on Martin's flushed cheek. Wanking with efficient, sharp strokes, he drags trails of pre-come across Martin's brow and eyelids, his face crudely painted with hot, degrading smears before the cock is shoved demandingly against Martin's lax, swollen lips.

"Swallow, and don't spill," the man warns. His voice is low and accented, threat implicit in the tone. "I want every last drop down your throat."

Martin takes the presented shaft into his mouth and sucks obediently, lips hot and wet and deliciously sloppy. He can taste the bitter edge of pre-come on every push, the smears across his sullied cheeks slowly drying as the pace speeds up. The thrusts are quick and impersonal, not even really fucking him so much as using his mouth as an aid to masturbation and Martin mews with humiliating want. He can hear the man begin to pant above him, muscles in his thighs and abdomen tightening before a sharp yank of his hair jerks Martin's head back again. The cock in his mouth is pulled free, spit still clinging to the tip as the man's other hand wraps around it tightly, jerking twice only to ejaculate maliciously over Martin's face.

He splatters Martin's cheeks and chin with a thick, white jet of semen and Martin holds his mouth open desperately, tongue sliding out to catch what little of it he can. A mournful noise of disappointment escapes his throat even as he swallows the few drips that actually make it between his lips and he can feel come oozing slowly down the bridge of his nose, thick and congealing as he the man snorts dismissively at him.

"Douglas," he says. "Your little pet made a mess. I distinctly remember telling it to swallow."

There's a moment's silence and then Martin gasps piteously as his head is wrenched to one side, the familiar, encompassing scent of Douglas's cologne wrapping round him as his master stoops to inspect.

"Well, well. So he did."

A finger drags through the wet trail on his chin, scooping up one of the escaped dribbles of come and sliding it back into Martin's mouth. Martin obediently accepts it, the finger dragging out of his mouth with a pop only when it's completely sucked clean.

"You are a messy eater, aren't you?" Douglas murmurs. "And after I explicitly heard Dirk telling you not to spill. What a willfully disobedient creature you are."

Martin squirms, almost incoherently aroused as Douglas presses him forward and down, filthy cheek pushed to the floor, weight resting on his shoulders so his backside is high and displayed. Martin knows what's coming, presented this way it's inevitable and he tenses futilely, toes curling in anticipation. He's been made to look like such a bad boy, and even though everyone has to be aware the man tricked him, Martin is already certain this is really going to hurt...

The first clap of Douglas's hand against his backside pounds like fire through his hips and arse. Martin's cock jerks feebly in reaction to the swelling heat blooming outwards from the point of impact. Douglas knows how to do this, how to make it last and how to make it burn, and Martin wiggles and bucks against the restraining hold wound tightly around his bound arms.

He can't move, he can barely keep his knees under him as the spanking progresses, hoarse cries and frantic moans breaking from his throat as that hard, familiar hand lands viciously, over and over across his aching backside. Martin's cock is already painfully erect, the tip leaking with each deep, bruising slap to his inner thighs, drips of pre-come marking the floor between his spread knees.

He hears comments being traded around him, lewd assertions and pornographic intent, but they are muffled by the roaring in his own head. There's something terrifyingly like orgasm swelling deep and threatening in his pelvis, his lips parting on a desperate plea before Douglas suddenly stops, nails digging sharply into the scarlet, bruised flesh of his bottom.

"Behave now," Douglas warns him. "They all want a piece of you. And I've told them if they can make you squeal they can have a second go."

Martin whimpers, insensate and desperate, hot and shivery, both limply submissive and so tense it hurts, body screaming with the need to be taken and fucked and sweetly, perfectly abused.

He doesn't know who falls on him first, just that his buttocks roar with pain at the harsh press of hips against him. The fat plug that's been forcing him open is finally eased free and he has no time at all to relish the sense of relief that brings before lifeless silicone is replaced with the slick, hot length of cock instead.

The man penetrating him is longer and thinner than he's used to, and it's not gentle going in, but the the plug has left him so stretched and loose it barely seems to matter. It's good, so very good to be taken at last, flesh giving way readily as his ass is claimed in one deep, luxurious push. Martin's fingers curl into claws where they're bound uselessly against his back, thighs flexing as he tries to arch himself back onto the invading thickness.

"Oh... fuck..." he breathes. It's half pain, half need, face creased in an expression of intense concentration as the long, hard girth draws out of him slowly, tormenting his sensitive hole for a moment before plunging back in with a fast, rough jab.

Martin cries out, a sharp burst of something raw and primal forced from his lungs as he is pounded into. It leaves him breathless, mindless, a hand reaching round to pull on his achingly wet cock until Martin is twitching and shivering and gasping as he's made to come. His spunk lands on the carpet, a meagre little puddle near where his arched chest meets the floor, the hand on his cock firmly milking him until there's nothing else left for him to give.

He flinches and tries to escape the unceasingly rough jerking of his spent penis but no matter how he wiggles it doesn't stop. If anything, his completion only serves to spur the man on, thrusting faster inside him. Martin can feel hot breath across the back of his neck and a low growl of satisfaction, orgasm leaving him so sensitised that he can't help but shiver and squirm and beg, trapped between invasive pounding and the controlling hand squeezed cruelly around his softening prick.

Martin can hear himself whimpering, even as he feels the first spurt of liquid heat finally spill inside him. A masculine groan echoes loud against his ear as hips push hard against Martin's scarlet behind. There's a jerk and a satisfied shudder, Martin's arse contracting instinctively as he is finally filled with a thick, hot load of come. Martin can't help but curl up tighter, face dragging against the floor, basking in it as the man holds himself deep within the constricting passage, enjoying the tightness of such a compliant body before finally deigning to withdraw.

The loss of the hot, passion-damp weight pinning him down leaves Martin shivery and exposed, a shaky exhale on his lips. He knows his stretched hole is on lewd display in this position, an invitation too blatant to be ignored and he accepts it passively as a new set of broad, strong hands wrap around his bare thighs. They pull his legs further apart, widening his stance obscenely before rigid heat touches the tender flesh between his buttocks again. It's a little sore already, but Martin relishes it, groaning in satisfaction as he's filled for a second time.

Martin's body clenches greedily as he's pinned by the weight above him, pressed to the floor with rough hands on his shoulders. It's quicker this time, a sudden drawing back before the snap of hips plunges the cock deep, the man's tight grip holding Martin in place as the stinging slap of bare flesh begins to pound eagerly against his rear.

It should be uncomfortable, or degrading, but somehow it's neither. He feels quite impossibly desired this way, the centre of so much intense focus, lavish and exquisitely sexualised. It’s a hot, dizzying rush, knowing that he- HE -can reduce these dominant, powerful men to a state of raw, primitive need. Martin bites his lip in satisfaction as the man behind him stutters and grinds hard, letting out a sharp huff of effort every time he shoves greedily into the willing body beneath him.

The breathless, rhythmic grunts quickly degenerate into a guttural string of curses and fingernails dig deliciously into Martin's pinned shoulders the closer to orgasm the man above him gets. Martin wants it, all of it, more of it, hitching in delight as his user finally growls and spills between Martin's legs in a fresh glut of thick warmth. Again there's a bare moment of languid satiation before the cock filling him is pulled free and Martin whines at the empty, loose feeling between his legs, sweetly moaning in relief as someone else takes their place and pushes easily back into his stretched, cummy hole.

It is glorious; almost overwhelmingly intense to be so used. He takes another that way, then one more before losing count entirely. He's pulled up onto his knees after that, thighs flexing to straddle someone's lap as his head is tilted back, mouth instinctively falling open for another cock to be shoved unceremoniously down his throat.

It all starts to merge thereafter, heady and intoxicating, inescapable fingers pulling and twisting his vulnerable nipples, hurting even as they drive his arousal tighter. He only knows that at some point he's left empty long enough to be flipped onto his back over the coffee table, arms trapped and legs pushed hard up against his torso. He sobs as he's re-entered that time, flesh parting under a brutal push that reams him quite carelessly hard. Penetrating thickness drives cruelly into his arse on every downstroke, jabbing against his prostate in a way that seems purposefully deigned to make him cry out in over-sensitised distress.

It's so intense, so invasive, that he doesn't know he's even hard again until he comes, climaxing with a choked gasp, cock untouched and muscles rigid as a watery drip of semen finally spills over his clenched belly. The pounding between his thighs doesn't stop though, not even as the force of it jerks him across the table, nudging him backwards until his head hangs limp and unsupported over the far edge.

He feels his legs being pulled up and out, helpless as firm hands around his ankles hold him spread wide and open to be violated. The heavy scent of sex overwhelms him as a man kneels on the floor in front of his face, course fingers prying his mouth open. Blood-hot flesh is shoved roughly between his bruised lips, fingers at the back of his neck holding him still as his throat is mercilessly filled, hips thrusting in counterpoint to the aching fullness deep in his arse. Trapped between two bodies, overwhelmed and possessed, all Martin can do is submit to it, embracing the fine edges of the perfectly white, blank mindlessness consuming him.

He has no idea how long that point lasts. His mouth accepts whatever it is given, time and again. His body remains pliant and exposed, revelling in being taken even as his own genitals rest limp and spent against his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut when someone takes his raw prick in hand and starts pumping it, jerking him uncomfortably even as tears of tortured bliss leak from the corners of his eyes. He wants to get hard for them, do as he's bidden even when it seems impossible, because he doesn't want it to end. He would stay like this forever if he could, suspended in perfect submission, letting them use his body however they like just to make themselves come.

He swallows habitually as another load fills his aching throat, kissing the softening penis reverently even as it slides from between his abused lips. He is sticky and his arms are cramping but arousal is being forced to build inside his belly again and the man in his arse jerks once, hard, before finally snarling in pleasure and ejaculating into Martin's already leaking hole. Somewhat distantly he can feel fluid trickling out of him as the man withdraws, semen clinging tacky and wet against his raw skin.

Martin's legs are finally released as the last man draws back, leaving Martin to hang limply off the edge of the table as the hand around his penis continues to methodically wank him back to unwilling hardness. His cock aches, balls drawing up as he gradually stiffens, muscles too exhausted to thrust against it. He is drawn almost to the cusp of something that could possibly be pleasure before he's entirely abandoned, a plea dying in his throat as his rigid, primed shaft is left to jut obscenely from between his splayed legs.

For one horrifying moment he is entirely alone, fucked out but aching, still needy, and he feels himself start to whimper in distress, eyes glazed and unseeing as he stares blindly into the middle-distance.

"Calm," someone murmurs and Martin curls in on that sound, even as he feels the tight closeness of being gathered up in someone's arms. He can smell his Master's cologne then, heavy in his nostrils, and he buries his face against that familiar shoulder, breathing it in and shivering weakly as he's pulled upright to straddle his Master's lap.

A warm, strong hand drags down his filthy, splattered stomach, fingertips barely skimming his cock before settling instead around the tender weight of his balls. Martin shudders as his Master cups them soothingly, testing their weight in his palm before circling a thumb and forefinger around the soft root where they join his body.

Martin's head is pulled down for a kiss, Douglas biting at swollen lips as he licks the taste of other men from Martin's deliciously bruised mouth. His fingers tighten gradually around the root of Martin's testicles, pulling gently on the sensitive orbs until Martin groans against Douglas's kiss, muscles in his belly fluttering in discomfort.

"I did warn you you'd need your stamina this evening," Douglas purrs. "I counted twice that you came already, and here you are, hard again."

Martin doesn't answer, just breathes raggedly against Douglas's lips, insensible and overwhelmed.

Douglas makes a low noise of reassurance, reaching between them to flip open his own trousers, the full hardness of his erection almost unbearably hot as he draws it out to press against the inside of Martin's thigh.

"They may have had you first, but you're still mine at the end," Douglas murmurs. His hands tighten around Martin's hips, pulling him down and Martin hisses at the burning soreness as Douglas sinks deeply into him, rolling his hips forward until he's buried to the hilt in Martin's body.

A sharp slap to his flank makes Martin twitch, muscles unsteady as he's nudged back and forth, made to rock on the engorged length filling him as Douglas's hands hold tight around Martin's slender thighs.

Martin's cock sways with each movement, neglected and tender, raggedly panted breaths escaping Martin's parted lips as he flushes harder with exertion. Canting his hips makes Douglas drag heavily against his prostate with each deep, lazy stroke, but the position makes his exhausted muscles burn and tremble, and he can't maintain the angle. Martin slumps forward with a shuddery sigh, cheek on Douglas's shoulder, whining in frustration as the exposed head of his penis brushes tormentingly against the white cotton of Douglas's shirt.

It leaves a translucent, wet mark behind, vivid and shameful, and Martin moans pleadingly as Douglas momentarily wraps his hand around Martin's erection. The tip of his broad, callused thumb toys idly with the delicate sheath of his foreskin before skimming across the sensitive head, wiping the slit to see moisture bead there before abandoning it again.

Martin shivers atop his Master's lap, flushed and exhausted, arching into Douglas's touch as controlling hands flex around his waist. Palms slide up over the curve of Martin's ribs to drag heavily over taut, reddened nipples and Martin writhes wantonly against the pressure of that touch, hitching as one hand vanishes only to slap down hard against his rear a second time.

"Keep moving," Douglas demands, and Martin tries, muscles weak as putty as thick fingers curl heavily around the curve of his tender buttock, squeezing and rubbing as Douglas begins to flex his hips up into Martin's welcoming heat. Martin bites his lip, letting himself be moved and guided, the hotly posessive grip kneading his bruise-tender backside as Douglas's other hand pulls and pinches at his vulnerably presented nipples.

His head feels foggy and thick, the tip of his cock pushing against Douglas's shirtfront and Martin watches it with dazed, heated detachment. The scuff of cotton against the crown of his penis and the resultant flare of pleasure in the pit of his belly ebbs and swells with each rock of Douglas's hips. He's too exhausted, too tender to want friction, but the light brush of fabric just isn't quite enough and Martin sighs breathily against Douglas's neck, trembling with fatigue as he presses his mouth lightly, pleadingly, against his Master's.

The kiss is soft, innocent, perfectly submissive and Douglas pushes back demandingly against it, both hands landing squarely on Martin's hips to pull him down as tight as possible. Douglas grinds up hard into the slick warmth surrounding him, coming with a harsh groan against his boy's softly yeilding lips. He blindly wraps a fist around Martin's cock and jacks it clumsily until Martin shudders and squirms in Douglas's arms, finally letting out a pitiful whimper as his cock twitches weakly through a final, painfully dry climax.

Martin sags helplessly into Douglas's embrace as he comes down, shivering and barely conscious even as Douglas carefully pulls out of his abused opening. Martin sighs in relief as the expertly tied knots are slipped to free his arms, fingertips tingling even as Douglas gently manipulates the cramped muscles into a more comfortable position.

"Good boy," Douglas murmurs against his ear. "Job very well done."

Martin barely manages to respond, a faint hum against Douglas's shoulder the only thing he has energy for. He doesn't remember closing his eyes, barely aware of being moved as Douglas wraps him in a soft blanket and scoops him up, carrying him like a sleepy child back to the car.

He can feel come leaking out of his dilated entrance, sticking the blanket to the back of his legs even as a cool bottle of water is pressed insistently against his parched lips. Douglas waits patiently, making sure Martin drinks before carefully strapping him in to the passenger seat of the Lexus. Martin falls asleep long before they reach home and doesn't wake even when Douglas carries him up to bed, rolling him over to clean away the congealing mess between his sticky, finger-bruised thighs.

Douglas watches Martin's face carefully after he's done, tracing his lax, exhausted features with the lightest brush of his fingers before getting up and switching off the light. He strips down and crawls into bed behind him, spooning around Martin protectively in the evening gloom. Martin probably won't sleep for more than an hour or two but he's going to be disoriented and ravenous when he wakes. He's also going to be sore as hell and Douglas lets his eyes skim briefly over the pile of snacks and painkillers sitting ready on the bedside table.

He'll run a bath in a bit; something warm, not too hot, maybe with a tiny splash of extra mild baby soap. He doesn't want Martin's tender parts to be any more uncomfortable than they're already going to be, but he's going to need to wash the crusted remains of the afternoon off his skin sooner rather than later.

Douglas is man enough to admit that watching Martin enthusiastically suck off half the fire crew, and then spread his legs for everyone else, had been a bigger turn-on than he'd actually anticipated. All in all he thinks it really went rather well, and the endless months of clandestine meetings and obligatory health checks had actually rather paid off. Certainly the eagerness with which Carl the ATC went round for a second go probably means they'd get priority runway clearance for the rest of eternity, and even Dirk's reputation for enmity had served its intended purpose.

Still, Douglas isn't actually certain whether Martin knows who he was servicing or not, or whether it even matters. Even now he can't help but worry a little, selfishly wanting to pull Martin tight against his chest and not let him go; not until he's certain that in the cold light of morning everything will still be as alright as it seems.

He loves Martin, deeply, but while the evening had gone almost perfectly to plan and Martin had obviously enjoyed himself, the idea of inadvertently hurting him terrifies Douglas like almost nothing else. Their relationship has been the steepest learning curve of Douglas's life and he strokes a hand carefully down the slender line of Martin's arm, wary of waking him but unable to stop himself from touching. He squeezes gently at the curve of Martin's bicep before reaching over to twine their fingers together, pressing his face against the back of Martin's neck and inhaling deeply at the familiar scent there.

Douglas closes his eyes and orders himself to relax. After all, Martin is here, with him. He's safe and sleeping, and Douglas will make sure that he's well cared-for. And right now that is the only thing that matters.


End file.
